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piece of cake.' How can I confess to him that I'm frozen with fear at the very thought of it?

    'I'll let you have my bill for commission,' Carl says.

    I lean over the bar and kiss him. 'Thanks for fixing me up with this.' And I really do mean that.

    'Don't let me down,' Carl warns me, 'or my sister will kill me.'

    'I won't. It seems I just have to sit there and make appointments and let people into the apartment.'

    'Like who?'

    'His voice coach...'

    Carl raises an eyebrow approvingly.

    'And he has a beauty therapist.'

    This generates a horrified frown. 'A what?'

    'A beauty therapist. He has massages and facials.'

    My friend is stunned. 'Men have facials?'

    'Yes.' I laugh at him. 'This isn't the Dark Ages, my dear Carlos. Some men care about how they look.'

    He's unconvinced.

    'Some men even believe they can change their socks more than once a month.'

    Now Carl looks very sceptical. 'No way.'

    But I can tell you that he's joking. Carl might want to give the impression that he and water have a very on-off relationship and his sole attempt at style seems to be to make Bob Geldof look like a vain dandy; however, he isdespite his outwardly scruffy appearanceone of the most fastidious people I know. I don't think he even enjoys smoking, he just does it to be antiestablishment.

    Carl stubs out his cigarette and downs his drink. 'Nearly time for our set.'

    A lump comes to my throat and tears prickle my eyes. 'Evan David lives in a very different world from ours, Carl.'

    Looking across at the tatty stage and our equally ragged audience, I realise that more than ever, I want a piece of it for myself.

Seven

    M y dad is lying on my sofa in his underpants and vest, which is a sight I don't want to see at the best of times, let alone at seven o'clock in the morning. I head straight for the kitchen. We both look the worse for wear. Dad because he's been drinkingdouble whiskies on Carl's accountand me because, at my age, four hours of beauty sleep is nowhere near enough.
    My dear friend Carl isn't coming round this morning because he doesn't realise there is any time before ten in the morning. He is blissfully unaware that life occurs before thenas, usually, am I. So no tasty bagels or treats today. There's no milk in the fridgeor food, come to think of itso I'm going to have to go to work on black coffee and the inhaled vapours of onion bhajis from the restaurant below.

    Braving the vision of my father's underwear, I stick my head round the door to the lounge. On the sofa, Dad stirs. He does cartoon rubbing his eyes and overexaggerated stretching. This is my father pretending that my couch is every bit as comfortable as his marital bed. But I'm not fooled. I have, in the past, spent an uncomfortable night or two on that sofa and, believe me, there are springs where you do not require springs to be.

    'Make a cup of tea for your old dad, sweetheart,' he pleads.

    This 'old dad' act is going to wear off very rapidly, too. My patience is already hanging by a thread.

    'We've no milk,' I say, at which he frowns. The thread frays a bit more and I sound defensive when I explain, 'I wasn't expecting company.'

    'I'll get some things in for you later,' he promises.

    'Later,' I tell him, 'you're going to go home and beg Mum to take you back. She always does.' Although I skirt round the fact that she's never physically and forcibly evicted him from their home before now. 'You might just have to work a bit harder at it this time.'

    Dad grunts.

    'Are you going to tell me exactly what you've been up to?' I'm not sure I buy this story about playing cards at Mickey's. Mum has had to put up with that for years and has never cracked in this way.

    He folds his arms across his chest, indignantly. 'Nothing more to tell. Swear to God, I haven't done a thing. I'm just the same as I've always been.'

    That's just cause for divorce on the grounds of emotional cruelty and unreasonable behaviour.

    I turn to go into the kitchen and Dad